Tuesday, December 16, 2008

Craig had a small S-10 pickup and the ATV looked like a hulk sitting in the truck bed. I don’t remember how we had room for bags of clothes and toiletries but we must have gotten them in there somehow. Lord knows I still was vain enough to have to have my hair styled and makeup applied even if I was sick at home alone.

In those days, any visit with Craig’s parents required liquid courage and the occasional excuse to get away for a few minutes. It takes me a long time to be comfortable with most people and my boyfriend’s parents were no exception.

That day, armed with a few beers in my belly, I thought it would be a great idea to take the ATV for a little solitary jaunt. I motored off with a nonchalant wave and gunned the engine for effect. The power at my fingertips began to seduce me. I ran the machine down the gravel road, enjoying the breeze in my face, tangling my hair wildly behind me. The tension eased from my body with each rumble of the engine. I was confident and calm, a regular queen on a 4-wheeler.

Then I got cocky.

I approached an area where the road widens before it veers off in two directions and decided I should turn around there. Instead of a nice easy turn, I hit the gas, intending to do some sort of power turn—or kill myself—whichever. The brain, regardless, was not engaged.

I turned around all right. I knew I was in trouble as the 4-wheeler started to hop on two of its wheels. Both in slow motion and in a split second I jumped away from the massive machine. As it settled on its side, the engine remained purring.

Barely noticing that I had left a good portion of my skin on the gravel, I turned off the vehicle and saw that gasoline was leaking from it.

Thinking that my boyfriend was going to kill me, I started rocking the hulking beast of a machine in hopes that I had developed some of that super-human strength that adrenaline supposedly sometimes produces. No such luck. It was then that I realized that I’d managed to crash the 4-wheeler in the exact center of the road.

With tears streaming down my face I took off toward Craig’s parents’ house in a half-limping, half-jogging uncoordinated gait. I probably looked like a drunk who’d lost a bar fight, which if you remember, wasn’t that far from the truth.

Craig, to his credit, was much more concerned over the state of his girlfriend than he was worried about his ATV. I urged him to go get the thing out of the lane of traffic (which, admittedly was pretty much nonexistent) so that I at least knew I hadn’t totally ruined his 4-wheeler.

Craig’s mom found bandages for my knees and elbow as I tried to regain my composure. I was embarrassed to have made such a stupid mistake. I was embarrassed to be crying in front of my boyfriend’s parents. I was embarrassed.

For weeks after the incident, Craig called me crash.

The sad thing is, that’s not the only occasion that he’s been able to tease me with the nickname Crash.

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